


Yennefer Alone

by Krimzie



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Aretuza, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Episode: S01E07 Before a Fall, Song: Toss a Coin to Your Witcher (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23212099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krimzie/pseuds/Krimzie
Summary: For a tiny village tavern in the middle of such a desolate stretch of Kaedwen along the Gwenllech River, The Oarhouse Inn had a fair stock—and most importantly, a quiet bard who favored his fiddle over singing. The soft croon of his strings and the homey charm of just-inaudible conversations was comforting and, Yennefer would come to regret, disarming.She'd also regret trusting that bard not to play that shit song.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, implied Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Yennefer Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Heartbreak and bad ideas abound for Yennefer of Vengerberg after the dragon hunt.

The ale at The Oarhouse Inn was _fine._

Hers was quite obviously the final dregs of the barrel, but she’d asked for a seasonal brew and it was harvest’s end, so that was unsurprising. But for a tiny village tavern in the middle of such a desolate stretch of Kaedwen along the Gwenllech River, it had a fair stock—and most importantly, a quiet bard who favored his fiddle over singing. The soft croon of his strings and the homey charm of just-inaudible conversations was comforting and, Yennefer would come to regret, disarming.

“Redania _tries,_ but Aedirn has the best beer,” Yennefer insisted again to the pretty girl next to her at the bar stools, her consonants soft with intoxication. “I know it, you know it, and the barkeep doesn’t want to admit it because of import taxes.”

“Aye, and that’s not your bias speaking?”

“What bias?”

“Two rounds ago you dropped that courtly diction like hot iron,” said her veritable drinking companion for the night. “The way you talk. Aldersberg?”

Yennefer squinted her eyes, allowing herself only a moment to be rankled before relenting. The woman, a textile merchant on her way to pedal her wares in Ard Carraigh, was friendly enough, and Yennefer hadn’t a proper conversation in weeks. “Vengerberg,” she admitted over the rim of her oak stein. 

“Vengerberg,” the woman repeated languidly, sizing Yennefer up with mischievous blue eyes. “I hear it. Know a few good men from thereabouts. A shame to think you’d have been a right kidda to keep around before Aretuza got to you.”

Yennefer stopped swirling the last of her drink, brows drawn. The course of the evening had become rather hazy, but as far as she could recall she’d said nothing about being a mage; decades of evading the Brotherhood had taught her better than that. Still, in the weeks since… well. She hadn’t exactly been performing her sharpest lately and it seemed appropriate (nay, _destined_ , she thought sneeringly) that her attempts to ease her self-isolation at a cozy tavern among the peasantry would backfire and land her in the hands of a chapter spy. She considered her options and exit strategies accordingly as she swallowed what remained of her drink. “Beg your pardon?” she said at last, expertly aloof.

The woman smirked. “I’m in the business of _clothing,_ Vengerberg. You might try a different look if blending in is what you’re after.”

Yennefer let out a long breath and chuckled. What paranoia. When she’d partnered with Eyck of Denesle for the dragon hunt under the thinly veiled guise of becoming the mage to his forthcoming vassal state, she figured that in the event the Brotherhood caught wind of her activities they’d dismiss it as trivial, if not pathetic. And what did she care of their opinion of her if it kept her trail obscured? But if the rumors of Nilfgaard held any truth, perhaps Yennefer had once again come into disrepute, even in absentia. She bared her teeth in a grimace at the thought of them sitting around at some haughty congregation, mocking her rebellion, blaming her for…

“Beer not suit?” the merchant asked, bringing Yennefer’s attention back to the inn, with its warm candlelight and smoky smells of roasted meat and that fiddler bowing a sweet northern ballad. She looked down at her empty cup and shook her head.

“It’s quite good, actually,” Yennefer said. “My imagination... it got away from me.” 

“Anywhere nice?”

She knew she’d ought to keep a tighter rein on her loosened lips, but the drink, the atmosphere, and the persistent sadness she’d felt since the dragon hunt made such caution seem so very lonely. And, normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. 

Which was, of course, the problem.

Yennefer turned to her companion with a squint. “I thought you might be a spy with how cleverly you sniffed me out.” She waited a beat, searching the woman’s face for the smallest of reactions. Nothing. “I remain unconvinced that you are, in fact, a simple textile merchant, but I am admittedly too cozy to leave.”

“Aye, too _soaken_ , you mean,” the woman said, nudging Yennefer’s shoulder with her own.

“Not yet, but certainly willing,” Yennefer laughed before she could catch herself. “To be soaken,” she clarified, rather unnecessarily. “If you’re not a spy.”

“Two pints!” the merchant signaled the barkeep. The man obliged. Before Yennefer could object, though she had no intentions to, a frothy mug was before her. It distorted in and out of her vision momentarily. She chuckled. 

The merchant woman slid the mug ever closer to Yennefer’s hand. “Now, I’m unsure if a magical woman of your status might scoff at a bit o’ friendly competition—”

“Depends. Are you challenging me to drain my cup like a common villager pounding barrel-bottom swill in the summer moonlight?” 

“Aye, well, nevermind then, ye two-copper counterfeit bard.”

“No, never _you_ mind! And never call me a bard again,” Yennefer said haughtily, vaguely aware of (although indifferent to) the inappropriate volume of her voice. “Three lifetimes of debauchery and you presume to think I couldn’t drink you under the table. Hm.” She sniffed and picked the mug up to her lips. “I aim to humble you.”

“No magic,” the woman said. 

They each hoisted their mugs, clinked, and guzzled, Yennefer regretting her choice as soon as the first gulps of bubbly ale sunk to her already too-wet stomach. She finished first but hesitated to gloat, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. All at once, her head swirled with booze and a sudden memory of summer moonlight on the rocky shores of Thanedd Island.

_“No magic, Fringilla, remember?”_

_“Rich coming from you! I won’t be falling for that again. Yenna’ll count us off this time.”_

_Yennefer watched with a soft smile as her classmates topped off their cups from the dwindling flagon of mead they’d transmuted from sea water and a few honeycombs from the potions supply closet. It was, of course, Yennefer’s portals which got them here and Yennefer’s magic that’d be traced and invariably Yennefer who’d have to take the fall. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been summoned to Rectoress De Vries’ office for reckless use of magic. But it was worth it… right?_

_She counted down from five and watched them chug sloppily from the cups. She’d rejected participating in this pastime often enough that they’d stopped asking. With their pretty mouths, they took such a task for granted; drinking from anything, let alone quickly, wasn’t as simple for her and she’d prefer not to embarrass herself. It was enough that they liked her company._

_That is,_ if _they did, if they didn’t just use her for portals and as a scapegoat for their curfew breaking. Well, she’d know in time. Soon enough they’d master portaling themselves and then what would she have to offer?_

Sixty years and the memory was still as sour as her stomach was now. She blinked to focus, swallowed hard, and found the merchant woman watching her sadly. The alcohol had begun to play hard on her reflexes, certainly, because only then did she feel the disconcerting sensation of having been psychically probed. Her heart raced, a dizzying experience on top of the liquor, but she quickly schooled herself and affected a still nonchalance.

“A textile merchant en route to Ard Carraigh,” she said as slowly as she could manage, forcing a smirk. “Isn’t that lovely?” She turned on her stool to face the woman fully, their knees brushing as she did so. Ever so softly she danced her fingertips on the woman’s thigh, just enough to properly distract her as she sussed the woman’s energies. She learned forward and said, sotto voce, “I could ask why a _merchant_ such as yourself would be channeling advanced illusion magic, but my manners being what they are...”

To the woman’s credit, her face remained utterly impassive. 

“Hm.” Yennefer withdrew her hand. It would be easy to invade this woman’s mind in return and find out who she really was, but a magic user capable of maintaining an advanced illusion spell would have counters. That, and Yennefer wasn’t entirely convinced her footing was sure enough for a quick exit if she blew this mage’s cover, and to portal out would blow her own. “Keep your secrets, that’s fine,” she muttered, burying her brow in her hands.

“Yennefer...”

She looked up. The woman’s fake face moved in and out of focus. “I never told you my name,” Yennefer said.

It was the principle of it, really; the other mage must’ve learned it _invading her personal memory_ , but had never asked for it in person, and for Melitele’s sake was it not a basic tenet of illusion magic to maintain the theater of it all? The believability? What kind of hack mage was she dealing with, anyway?

The illusion woman’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a gaping fish, which was Yennefer’s first hint that she’d said all of that aloud. The second was the small circle of diners staring at her, wide-eyed and uncomfortable. 

Whatever apology she might have half-assed was caught in her throat when, indignity upon indignity, the tavern bard began bowing his fiddle to the tune of _that gods-forsaken song_. Her knuckles blanched with the force of her grip on the edge of the bar. “Useless bard, I _trusted_ you,” she growled at no one, at everyone. "Shit song." How much coin would it take to get him to stop? She could throw her mug at him, or, better yet, portal him into the neighboring river. But no, no, now half the tavern was starting to sing along. 

_“...graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song!”_

Whatever rage she felt was immediately extinguished by a bone-deep sadness at _that name_ , a sadness she couldn’t even _trust_ because of _course_ the damn _wish_ would probably dictate that, too. She gracelessly and wordlessly left her stool, snatched her pack from the sticky floor, and flung several coins onto the bar. She shouldered through a few singing patrons, face down and seeing only her own blurry boots as they carried her to the door and out into the chilly night.

It wasn’t far, but she didn’t stop until she reached the sparsely forested riverbank. She didn’t know if she was going to cry, vomit, scream, or a frightening combination of all three, but at least she was alone. 

As she should be.

“Yennefer, wait,” a voice called out behind her.

“For fuck’s sake!” Yennefer barked, turning around too quickly and catching her balance on a tree trunk. She squinted at the figure moving toward her. The mage had dropped the illusion and was crunching across the blanket of fallen autumn leaves. No… it couldn’t be. She had to be drunk out of her skull. 

“Sabrina?”

It was unmistakably Sabrina Glevissig who was now disconcertingly close to placing a hand on her shoulder and looking concernedly… concerned. “What are you doing here, Yennefer?” 

An answer Sabrina did not deserve, truly, and if Yennefer could make out shapes any closer than Sabrina’s face and the tree on which she braced her hand, she’d have made a show of shoving past her and ignoring the question. But as her mind chorused with her own questions and grief and an increasingly aggravating repetition of coins and valleys of plenty, she could only look at Sabrina and blink, silent as the grave.

And then, before she could censor it (as if her tongue itself had had the thought and not her mind), she said, “I don’t know.”

And they were silent again until, perhaps prompted by Yennefer’s not-subtle sway, Sabrina by way of example crouched and sat on a crisp pile of dry leaves, tucking her feet beneath her. Yennefer watched her disdainfully, rolling her eyes, and followed suit.

“You know,” Yennefer said drily, hating the tension, “I thought it might be nice if we lived in a world where mages didn’t probe their fellows’ private thoughts when a simple _hello, how are you_ might suffice.” Yennefer picked up a leaf and crumbled it in her palm. “But then, I’d have done the same if you hadn’t beaten me to it.”

“Hello. How are you?” said Sabrina, smartly. “You know, aside from completely crocked.”

“Very well and never better,” Yennefer answered, then scoffed. “Completely…? Remind me again who held whose lovely locks the morning of Belletyn recess as she—”

“No, no, I remember,” Sabrina said, cutting her off. “You. You did. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me _now_ because you surely wouldn’t have then, and I’ll know it’s only because of what you saw,” Yennefer said, far more emotionally than she wanted to. _Cursed ale._

“But I am sorry,” Sabrina started. “We—”

“No. Absolutely not,” Yennefer said firmly. “You are not to complete that thought, now or ever. You might at least have the decency to pretend to forget what you’ve eavesdropped.” 

She looked over at Sabrina, with her crystal eyes and shiny blonde hair and as stunning as ever, even before her transformation, and she had to quiet a very ancient and boozey pang of jealousy and other such meddlesome, youthful impulses. Sabrina, it seemed, had a similar quagmire to tread, and for a while there were only nightingales in the distance and the babbling river’s edge to fill the quiet as they regarded each other.

“You’re sad,” Sabrina said at last. 

“And you’re on a mission,” Yennefer said. When Sabrina didn’t object, Yennefer quietly laughed. “So you’re here to what, arrest me? Take me in before the council? You’re doing quite a poor job of it.”

“It’s… complicated,” Sabrina said. “After all these years, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I heard you’d crossed into Kaedwen. But you’ve surprised me. If I tell them that you’re just lying low, wandering the lands, it would be the truth.”

"I'm seeking other paths,” Yennefer corrected without much gusto. “You’d be amazed what the Continent has to offer when you aren’t sucking the tits of the Brotherhood.”

“And yet it doesn’t seem to come highly recommended, at least not to the merchant bound for Ard Carraigh. Aimless and boring, I think you’d described it?”

Yennefer groaned and decided to parrot Sabrina’s own words. “It’s complicated.”

“Then you ought to be more careful than going six pints deep with strangers at riverside lodges.”

“I typically don’t, and you aren’t a stranger.”

“And getting angry at bard ballads about witchers, is that typical?”

“Putting your nose where it doesn’t belong, is that typical?” Yennefer didn’t pause. “Let me answer that for you: yes, for well over half a century.”

“Always were masterful at deflection, of spells and conversation alike. Some things never change.”

“Well I certainly don’t owe _you_ any explanations, do I?” Yennefer shook her head slowly, gazing out at the moonlit ripples of the river current. “I’m not so far gone I’d shoot the shit with the very spy sent to implicate me.”

“I’m not here to turn you into the Brotherhood. Besides, they’ve their hands full with Nilfgaard—”

“I’m going to stop you right there, for the pig’s ass I give about their politics. Save your breath.”

Sabrina’s mouth hung open and she made a sound of frustration as she lightly threw her hands in the air. “Fine. _Fine_. In case you’ve forgotten, this is _my_ kingdom you’re in. I had to be sure you weren’t here to cause public disorder like you had in Rinde or, if rumors are true, tracking beasts alongside the mutants of Kaer Morhen for gods know what reason—no, don’t interrupt me—and instead I find you holed up in a tavern, licking your wounds and diligently drowning the broken heart you so unconvincingly pretend to lack.” 

Yennefer wanted so badly to silence Sabrina’s tirade, but at once she found herself in quite an unfamiliar predicament: intoxicated, sad, and unable to parry. 

“I know the years we spent at Aretuza are not your best memories, but you’re my sister, whether you like it or not—whether _I_ like it or not—and I wouldn’t have spent the whole _evening_ with you—”

“Your ruse hardly counts.”

“—if I didn’t care about you!” 

Sabrina’s declaration hung in the air between them. As far as Yennefer could tell, limited though her present powers of perception were, she had two options: open up to her old classmate and hope a horse was just horse and maybe the other mage's company would be a much-needed salve for her heartache and loneliness, or call out the bullshit for what it was.

It was an easy choice.

“So what’s this, then? Sabrina Glevissig swoops in and saves the rogue witch with her kind smile and bleeding heart? I don’t need your help,” Yennefer spat, the words and the pretense behind them an all too recent echo. She braced a hand on the cold ground and vaulted to her feet. “And like hell do I trust you.”

“Then don’t trust me. I don’t care.” Sabrina rose to her feet far more gracefully and rounded on Yennefer. Against her desire to maintain an ever-present posture of strength and composure, Yennefer couldn’t help the small flinch when Sabrina stepped closer than anticipated. “I don’t want you causing problems here,” Sabrina continued. She held out her hand, a folded parchment scissored between her fingers. “You said you’re headed for Nazair.”

Yennefer regarded Sabrina curiously, if not distrustfully, before taking the paper and opening it. It was a letter of safe conduct from Caingorn, signed and imprinted with Niedamir’s wax seal. 

“Did you forge this?”

“No,” Sabrina said, “and you shouldn’t have any problems with the guards. They’ve criminalized portaling over the borders, so you’ll need to hire a horse.” Sabrina shook her head and sighed. “The ‘merchant’ told you this is a bad idea, because I think it’s a bad idea, but I’ve never seen anyone able to save you from bad ideas before.”

Yennefer bristled but said nothing.

“I don’t think you’ll find Istredd and I don’t think he’ll be happy to see you if you manage to,” Sabrina said. “It's unfair to open up old scars just to forget new wounds.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Sabrina said sharply. “But you don’t need my help. So do whatever it is you aim to do, as long as you leave Kaedwen.”

 _Oh_. To admit Sabrina’s dismissal hurt, even to herself, was far too vulnerable a thing to do, so Yennefer steeled herself until the hurt turned hard and protective. She had nothing to say—or didn’t trust what would come out if she tried—and served Sabrina an empty, impassive stare. Sabrina took the hint, chuckling sadly as she nodded.

“Safe travels, then, Yennefer.”

Sabrina turned and took the hill back up to the road and was soon lost behind the trees lining the riverbank. Yennefer at last swallowed the lump squeezing her throat and turned the letter around and around in her fingers. Sabrina’s unsolicited lecture rang in her ears, but in her mind she only heard Geralt’s voice.

_And you, you flit about like a tornado, and for what?_

She wasn’t sure anymore.

* * *

When the sun rose the following morning over Thanedd Island, a secret note was opened.

_Dear Vilgefortz of Roggeveen—_

_I hope this message finds you quietly. Please be advised it is enchanted and will promptly catch flame._

_Yennefer of Vengerberg is embarking by horse to Nazair. You are likely to find her at one of three monolith digsites in a fortnight’s time. Unexpectedly, I do not think it will be as hard to convince her as anticipated, but I wish you luck and patience all the same._

_Regards,_

_Sabrina Glevissig of Ard Carraigh, advisor to King Henselt_  



End file.
